


whisper on a star chase

by iamnotbrianmay



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: 1970s, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Be Careful What You Wish For, Birthday, Childhood Trauma, Children, Cuddling & Snuggling, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Kid Roger Taylor, Light-Hearted, Male Friendship, Memory Magic, Pedophiles Stay Away, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Soulmates, Sharing a Bed, Supernatural Elements, Team as Family, Trauma, Wish Fulfillment, Wishes, time travel (sort of)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2020-09-01 13:36:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamnotbrianmay/pseuds/iamnotbrianmay
Summary: Brian turned to look at Roger with a mischievous smile, "Well, since my wish has been granted I guess I get another one. I wish I could meet you as a child, I bet you were a little runt."Roger laughed at Brian's statement, knowing that it held no real intent behind it. But shooting stars had no knowledge of whether someone actually meant what they wished for, they only knew that they grant one wish every several hundred years.





	1. a shooting star leaping through the sky

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so let us establish some ground rules before you get into this fanfiction: 
> 
> 1\. No Pedophiles allowed. I swear to God if I even catch a whiff of you near the vicinity of my fic I will erase this simply because I do not, under any circumstance, condone paedophilia.  
That being said, this is not to be taken in any way, romantic or sexual. This is a fic I wrote mainly inspired on the fact that most of the time I wish I didn't have to explain my past traumas to other people, and that I'd wish they would just know things without me needing to tell them. 
> 
> Therefore, commenting something related to sexual age-play would not be appreciated at all, even if it's not paedophilia. This is very personal to me, and I don't want it to be fetishised in any way. 
> 
> This was originally posted on anon. but I figured I should woman up and just own it. The only thing worse than crack and cringey fics is not having the ovaries to claim them as yours, so yah, please don't hate. 
> 
> Sorry for the long disclaimer, and I hope you enjoy!

It started, as most things do with Queen, during a night out. 

It was Brian's birthday, and the three other members of Queen had planned everything down to a T to give their friend the birthday he deserved. They didn't have much money, so fancy gifts or excellent food was out of the question; and Brian didn't quite enjoy the party scene now that he had begun teaching and hardly had any energy for recording, much less partying. So they had to settle for something much simpler. 

Freddie and Roger had gone around asking for generous alcohol donations from Brian's friends, John bought everything edible, and between the three of them they set up quite extensive clothes and food provisions. Then they drove for nearly four hours, with Brian passed out of the back seat, until they reached their destination for the next week. A friend of Rogers had lent them a cabin in the middle of nowhere, with a lovely view of the night sky and tranquil forests beside it. The smile Brian gave them once they got there was enough to confirm that it had been an excellent decision to come to the ass ends of England for the special occasion. 

The house is something else. It stands in the middle of a clearing with all kinds of lawn animals and gnomes laying in all the surrounding area. Trees and flowers are the only things that can be seen for miles, and the quietness of the forest only adds to the otherworldly feel. It blends in perfectly with the rest of the forest, wooden walls and overgrown bushes decorated with what must have been at least seven different types of curtains and all kinds of cheesy messages which were probably painted on while on an acid trip back in the mid-sixties while listening to a radio broadcast about the Summer of Love. That is if the radio even manages to get a signal all the way inside the forest. 

Roger hears someone yawn as he pulls up beside the house, mindful not to run over the gnomes, and turns the car off. He turns to look at the three over boys and finds them waking up from their long nap. They had conked out a little over fifteen minutes after they had left London, and Roger had been left to drive in relative silence, only interrupted by the occasional snore or sleepy mumbling by one of his bandmates. 

Brian rubs his eyes, then looks out of the window, "We're here?" 

"Yep," Roger pushes the car door open and walks towards the back door if their van. He hears as Brian slides the door open and gets down from the van, the older man takes a deep breath, enjoying the fresh, warm, air of the forest. 

"You blew it out of the water this time," Brian leaned on the side of the van as Roger opened the back door, "Now I don't know what I'm going to do for your birthday to make up for this." 

"Oh, I see you think this is all about you, huh?" The teasing tone in Roger's voice, "What makes you believe that I didn't do this for my own enjoyment?" 

Brian scrunched up his nose, "You? Willingly not going out partying at least once in ten days?" 

Roger chuckled, "Who says we are not partying, huh, Brian?" 

Freddie and John got out of the car after a few seconds, giggling about something as they helped get their bags and all of the food out of the back of the car. They carried it inside, making sure that everything was stuffed into the half-working fridge and the pantry before they actually settled down and squabbled over the rooms. The rooms, like the rest of the house, were quite peculiar. The covers of said beds seemed to match with the psychedelic decoration of both the living room and weirdly the prints on the pots and pans. And although his friend had assured Roger that four people could comfortably live in the house, there were only two beds. 

One which could only be described as an Alaskan King Bed, and another, much smaller, single bed. It was quite ridiculous knowing they would have to fight about having the privilege to sleep alone knowing that Brian was technically the birthday boy, and probably deserved not to be kicked in his sleep by either Freddie or John who were anything but good bedmates. But they all had their needs, and, albeit selfish, reasons for wanting to sleep alone rather than with two other bandmates. They ended up agreeing on rotation, as long a Brian got to sleep alone as a birthday present, the night before and the night of the 19th of July, which would mean that they would have to set a rotation cycle that would accommodate just that. 

In the end, Roger won the privilege of having the first night of their stay alone, just because he had driven them all the way to the ass end of England _and _gotten the house for their little escape. After they had unpacked, or half-unpacked given that Freddie had somehow convinced them to join into an impromptu concert the moment he had gotten bored, Roger set out to make dinner. He gathered what little kitchen-wise knowledge he had and prepared a half-decent pasta with tomato sauce, which they paired with some cheap carton wine, and somehow managed to hoist up to the roof of the house porch. 

Roger realised they had nothing to drink the cheap wine out of just before he climbed up the wooden ladder John had found on the back of the house, and quickly ran inside to get something to make them seem half-decent. Which ended up being ugly coffee mugs with slogans printed upon them. Once they were all settled, with their backs leaned on the slanted roof and eating their almost edible pasta, the conversation started to flow. 

It amazed Roger beyond belief how easy it was for them to talk endlessly to each other and never run out of conversation topics. Maybe that's the good part of having opinionated and interesting friends. It felt like they always somehow managed to fall into an easy banter, telling stories which they had probably heard a thousand times before, debating about certain things which had happened all around the world, or even just talking about exciting facts they had learned. It almost always ended in either some ridiculous child-like game or some in-depth philosophical analysis carried out by one of them to which the rest would listen intently as if trying to memorise every single word off. 

That day it had been the latter, with some weird anecdote about an LSD trip and a rather terrible scolding by Freddie's parents, turning into a rather hilarious rendition of truth or dare which Freddie invented which he dubbed, 'Truth or Drink'. A dangerous game to play with something that tasted more like adulterated alcohol than cheap store-bought wine. That, however, hadn't stopped them in the past, and wouldn't stop them now when there was visually nothing else to do but drink. 

It had started out quite innocently. With cheeky questions that they all already knew the answer too, or risque things like _'would you ever kiss a bloke?' _to _'Three weirdest fetishes you have, and no, Brian, bondage is not a weird fetish'. _It all ended with them running out of weird questions to make, which was dangerous to people like Roger, mainly because he didn't want to die of alcohol intoxication, and because he didn't want to expose himself to his bandmates. He had made a promise to himself never to say a word about what had happened to him when he was a kid, and he wasn't about to break it now because of Freddie's prying. 

He didn't even feel guilty about his decision when Freddie told them about his early childhood memory back in Zanzibar, of children running on the beach with starfish on their hands trying to save the critters as their parents screamed at them about how they could be venomous; only for soldiers to shoot one of the kids which had been with Freddie a few days later. Or as Brian told them about that one time he realised the wearing girls' dresses were _not_ something boys would typically do. He didn't even feel an ounce of regret as John told them about the death of his father and the months after that. 

It was only after John had taken a sip of his wine to seemingly lessen the knot in his throat that all eyes turned to Roger. The moon was in its old stage, thin enough for it not to cast almost any light at all, and the stars were bright and beautiful, as they had wanted them to be when thinking about Brian's birthday present. He looked up at them and for some reason felt tears prickle at the corner of his eyes. He had been aware of the tight knot of anxiety in his gut ever since they had started speaking about their childhoods, but now that it was his turn to spill his secrets he almost felt like throwing up. 

The worst part was that compared to what the others had lived through his story seemed somewhat silly. It was no bloody revolution or death of the most important person in his life, it wasn't even something that had set him apart and had been the cause of bullying for a good chunk of his life then made him question who he was. Yet the Michael Taylor phenomena, and the collateral damage that was Roger Taylor, was still more of a sore point than anyone would ever know. He still remembers the boy he used to be back then, a quiet little thing with hardly any fight left in him, and he is so _ashamed_. 

He shouldn't be feeling ashamed over what his father had done. But he should have sought to fight against his hurtful words and even more hurtful punches and kicks, not stay quiet and accept them. But the fight he was so known for had only started after he had moved to London. After he saw that there was more to life than the almost pristine bedroom back home, his father's cruel punishments, and the smell of stale sex, cigarettes and spilt alcohol. 

It didn't take long for him to decide what to do. He just pressed the cup to his lips and emptied it in three long gulps as the rest of the boys watched his friend through worried eyes. But that was the thing, he didn't need his bandmates pitying looks, he didn't want to be the victim, didn't want to be the poor blonde kid who breaks at the touch of a feather or the slap of his father. Not when the other three have gone through so much and come out strong while he came out like... that. A trained little soldier with a will of clay upon his father's demand. 

He could see the wheels turning inside his friends' heads, trying and failing to come up with an explanation to why Roger was reacting like that to such a question. But they had unbreakable rules for these types of games. No judging, no pushing, and most definitely not asking things that the others didn't want to be asked. He felt infinitely shitty for ending their game, too. With all the alcohol they had for that night gone they had nothing left for them to do but sit back and look up at the stars, listening to Brian who droned on and on and on about the cosmos. 

It was only after a good half an hour that they fell silent for the first time, and Roger couldn't help but think it was his fault. They watch the stars in silence, alcohol pouring through their veins, making the roof their laying in tilt and their mouths a little more loose than usual. It's John who speaks first, turning to look at the blonde man laying next to him. 

"Why can't we know?" 

Roger plays dumb, humming non-committedly but not tearing his eyes away from the night sky, "Know what?" 

"_John,_" Freddie warns him, trying to remind the younger boy of their agreement, but the youngest is far too preoccupied with what's going on in Roger's mind. All the demons which had left the boy practically mute since he had drunk that cup of wine. 

"Don't play coy," John insisted, "you know what I'm talking about. Why don't you want us to know?" 

"About what, Deaks?" 

"About your childhood, about what you were as a kid, I just find in kind of unfair that we had to bear our souls to you yet you can't even say a peep about what you were as a child. I don't even know your father's first name, for gods sakes, and I have to assume that his last name is Taylor because that's _your _last name." There is a long silence in which none of them seem to even breathe, then he speaks again, "It's been three years, Roger. When are you going to let us in?" 

Roger clears his throat, "There is nothing to share. Just traditional British education and a cold father. Not much to talk about, or let you in on." 

The four of them fall silent once again, right across the sky a shooting star streaks through the black fabric. It's nothing but a faint glimmer, and according to the information that he had stored after years of listening to Brian speak, it's nothing but a normal occurrence. This fact, however, did not stop them all from momentarily forgetting their argument. They all awed at the tiny glimmer of light, and it was Freddie who spoke up first. 

"Come on, make a wish before any of its magic fades away." 

"Fred—" 

"Humour me, dear." 

John cleared his throat, "I have a wish. I wish Roger would open up about his childhood." 

To which the blonde rolled his eyes, "Alright then, two can play that game. I wish I didn't have to explain things to you." 

Freddie scoffed, "And I wish you would realise that we only want to get to know you better, even help you." 

"Drop it," Brian hissed, "I mean it. We have rules about this for a reason." There was a second in which Roger figured that Brian would not succumb into wishing upon a shooting star, but then the older man sighed, "I just wish we could all get along for my birthday, one week without wanting to rip each other apart, please?" 

The words rung in Roger's ears. It made his heart twist to think that they had been fighting for a good part of the day, about the beds, about the organisation of the food, about Roger's inability to tell them about his childhood. A Knot formed in his throat, and he turned to look at Brian. His best friend was looking up at the stars with sad eyes and a defeated expression. It hurt Roger beyond anything to see him like that. 

"Wish granted," Roger said, "I'll try to keep fighting to a minimum." 

The other two agreed to Roger's statement, and it was then that Brian turned to look at Roger with a mischievous smile, "Well, since my wish has been granted I guess I get another one. I wish I could meet you as a child, I bet you were a little runt." 

Roger laughed at Brian's statement, knowing that it held no real intent behind it. Brian seemed to know him better than anyone, he knew that his childhood was a sore point for the drummer. He had never pried, never asked questions, and always kept a reasonable distance between himself and the topics which turned Roger into a shell of himself. However, unbeknown to them a rather strange looking meteor entered the atmosphere at the exact moment when Brian uttered those words. 

In later papers, scientists would describe it as a miracle that it hadn't hit the ground. According to some reports it was made out of undefined matter and left a long green tail as it disintegrated all over the British countryside. Some would call it a gift from nature, other a scientific anomaly, but to Roger Meddows Taylor it just registered as an odd heavy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach and a tingling feeling on the back of his head. 


	2. children of the land

Brian woke up to the feeling of a knee pressing to his back, an aching clavicle, and a mouth of black hair. It was rather surprising how even in the most massive fucking bed they had managed to find, Freddie and John always ended up pressed to him in some way. He didn't even know why he had agreed to be in the middle, knowing this would be his exact fate. He wiggled free from the embrace, hopping out of bed as soon as possible and walking over to the kitchen to start on breakfast. 

The house was oddly quiet, with Roger sleeping in for what must have been the first time in almost a year, and Brian felt strangely unnerved. The door to the room the blonde was sleeping in was closed, and knowing Roger probably locked, so Brian didn't even bother to look inside. He just set out to wash the cups and plates they had used the night before, thanking God for his lack of headache after a night of drinking. In the morning light, the cups looked even more ridiculous than in the moonlight, with various weird designs and slogans which matched the aesthetic of the house just right. 

There was a light shifting sound from Roger's bedroom. Last night he had felt somewhat guilty at not standing up for Roger any sooner than he did. He knew that the drummer's childhood, more specifically his dad, was something of a skeleton in the blonde's closet. He had tried many times before to pry the information from him, only to get the worst side of Roger imaginable. 

No, he wasn't talking about the insufferable brat which threw a tantrum when his ideas got vetoed. It wasn't even close to the fiery response he has when things don't go his way. It more of an emotionless silence. An all-consuming and very worrying silence in which Roger can't do anything but stare at the walls with a faraway look in his eyes and only talks when asked something. Now that was a Roger that Brian feared. Something so uncharacteristically _him _that his mind can only run off to create the vilest scenarios to his friend's reactions. 

Now he is washing up the dishes from the night before, lost in thought about the man sleeping alone. Now that he thinks about it, they shouldn't have let Roger sleep alone after such a night. Not when he could have been hurt as much as Brian thinks he was hurt. 

He set on a mission to make it up to Roger once he gets to the conclusion that he was a rather terrible friend. He makes coffee just like Roger likes it, with a little bit of sugar, a lot of milk and just a dash of powdered chocolate to add some flavour. He even goes that extra mile and cuts up some of the fruit the had bought and arranges it neatly in a plate so that Roger at least looks at him with amusement when he walks into the room. 

He ushes into the blonde's bedroom, finding that the blinds have been drawn up, the bed has been made, and the mess that he was sure was going to greet him is none existent. He looks around in confusion, wondering if maybe Roger had left that morning to jog for a while, perhaps even drive for a few hours to clear his head. But that didn't explain the order inside the younger man's bedroom. 

His eyes run across the room one more time before zeroing in on one of the weirdest sights he had ever seen. 

There had been an afternoon in which Brian had gone to visit Roger's sister, Clare. She was a carbon copy of Roger, blonde, blue-eyed and with a charming smile. She had ushered them inside, making them some tea and cracking open a tin of biscuits for them to chat over. Then, amid their lovely afternoon, she had pulled out the old family albums from her tiny library. It had been the first, and probably one of the last, times he had seen Roger as s child. 

He looked tiny in comparison to his classmates. He had an adorable and crooked smile, eyes as large as ping pong balls, neatly trimmed hair and slightly large ears which stuck out from under his hair. At that moment, Brian had wanted to squish the little boy, holding him as close as possible and making sure that nothing would happen to him. Then Roger said something along the lines of '_bloody hell, I looked like a gremlin!' _and the feeling had instantly passed. 

Now, however, a few years into the future and weird fantasies set aside, Brian found himself staring at the same boy of the picture. The blonde kid was sitting on the edge of the bed, back perfectly straight, hands curled up on his lap, not making a single sound but staring at Brian with too-blank eyes. For some reason, he had expected the little boy to have loads of energy, or go around the house screaming bloody murder. That's what he had imagined kid Roger would do. 

The boy tilted his head to the side, eyes flickering between Brian and the plate of fruit. When he finally spoke, Brian nearly had an aneurism, "Did my father tell you I could eat yet?" 

They usually always mocked roger because they thought he sounded like a little kid. High pitched and feminine when he wasn't trying to make his voice sound gruffer. This kid, whoever he was, sounded just like Roger did. His mind short-circuited as he tried to process the fact that he was looking at no other than Roger Taylor, _six-year-old Roger Taylor_, while holding a platter of badly cut fruit and stale coffee. So the only logical response his Brian could come up with was, "Uh, No. Stay here." 

Then he promptly ran out of the room, slamming the door behind him. 

He stood in the kitchen, staring at the marble counter while trying and failing to make sense of what was happening. His thoughts weren't more intelligible than a few poorly strung words, and his throat felt too dry, and his limbs felt like lead. That's how Freddie and John found him, staring at nothing and in the verge of tears. They instantly hurried to his side, grabbing his arms and making him stand up straight. 

They asked him what was wrong about three times before he found it in himself to answer. He opened his mouth to speak but was quickly interrupted by someone else speaking, "_They won't believe you unless someone shows them the truth." _

The three of them whirled around to find Roger, _big_ Roger, leaning against the door leading to the cursed room. Except this wasn't Roger at all. Sure his hair was tied up in that messy bun he liked to wear in the mornings, and he was wearing his most comfortable pyjamas, which Brian was sure had belonged to him at some point while giving them one of his winning smiles. The only problem was that not only was he practically see-through from his waist up, and from his waist down... 

Brian swallowed, "Oh god, I'm having such a bad trip." 

Not-Roger chuckled, the sound making the hair on the back of their necks stand up at its almost disembodied quality, _"Not a bad trip, I'm afraid. I don't think there's anything strong enough to make you see something like this._" 

Brian felt like throwing up, crying, and breaking down in hysterical laughter at the same time. He wanted to run out of that room and jump into the nearest lake, see if the freezing cold water makes him regain some of his senses. Instead, what ends up happening, is that John steps forward, "_This? _What is _this _exactly, Roger?" 

The blonde tilts his head as if the bassist was asking a ridiculous question, "_Your wish upon the star. Don't you remember?" _

"Wish upon a—" John shakes his head, "Alright, enough game, Roger, just stop doing whatever it is that you are doing and help us get our breakfast ready." 

"_Your wish upon a star,_" Roger repeats eerily, "_You wished for this John, all of you did, don't you remember?" _

"Well, I certainly didn't wish for you to become a ghost! Freddie screeches, and the guitarist knows that the younger man is three seconds away from a nervous breakdown. 

"_Not a ghost," _the drummer corrects him, "_I'm just a warning right now, hardly something physical made up of all the memories that Little Roger over there lost when he regressed. I'm just here to warn you about what is about to happen." _

"What is about to happen?" 

Roger nodded, as he did, he faded a little out of focus, "_You have until my birthday to make sure your wishes come true. All of them." _

"And if we don't?" Brian couldn't believe he was actually humouring one of his weird drug-fuelled hallucinations. He couldn't even believe that even after all the tie which had passed since they had gone to be the side effects of whatever had been in that wine were still present. 

"_Then the effects of your last wish become permanent, and that little boy inside the room will have to start over again. He will have to live a new life as someone completely different than he was meant to be. And you? Well, let's say history will _definitely _change without you around to shape it." _

One second Roger was leaning on the doorway, and the next he was gone, vanished into thin air leaving no trace behind but confused bandmates. They stared at the door for a few seconds, and then it creaked open, revealing to the world a very nervous looking, six-years-old, Roger Taylor dressed in nothing but an oversized (adult-sized) shirt. He looked down at his feet, hands behind his back and posture perfectly straight. 

"Sirs, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I haven't eaten since yesterday, and I _really_ wanted to know if my father has given me permission to do so yet." 

Brian didn't know what he wanted to do more, either run towards the kid and tell him to choose whatever his little heart desired from their (not so) ample variety of foods, or to go back to bed and sleep the terrible nightmare off. So instead, his knees buckled, and he fell to the floor. 


	3. her little baby boy

John blinked thrice, trying to make his brain stop whirring and displaying what could only be described as a gigantic '_Syntax Error' _sign. It worked, for the most part, and he had half the brain to recognise that out of the three remaining members of the band he was the only he who wasn't in the middle of a mental breakdown. Also, he was the only one who would be able to handle the situation in the slightest. 

Freddie looked on the verge of tears and Brian was currently on the floor staring at the little boy like he was a ghost, which in some twisted way, he actually was. John cleared his throat and turned towards Freddie, "Take Brian to the bedroom. I'll make sure Roger eats something, okay?" 

"John—" 

"Do it," his eyes flickered to the little kid who was staring at them with pleading eyes, "I'll be there in a second." 

His tone left no room for argument, and Freddie had no other choice but to hoist Brian to his feet and guide the stumbling man to the bedroom. John was then left staring at the little boy; all bravado vanished and a daunting task ahead. He didn't even remember what the little boy had said about talking to his father. So John took a deep breath, crouched down to be at the same eye level as Roger, and smiled at him, "Alright, what do you want for breakfast, huh?" 

The blonde blinked as if the bassist had asked about how to calculate a Stellar Magnitude rather than what kind of breakfast he prefered, "So you didn't speak with my dad?" 

John licked his lips, "No, we did. He said we could give you anything that you wanted." 

Tears started to form at the corners of the little boy's eyes for the reason that John couldn't quite comprehend. However, the small blonde wiped the tears away as fast as he could, then looked down at John's feet, "I'm sorry for the drama mister, I wasn't even that hungry. I don't think I want any breakfast." 

John found himself connecting dots almost immediately, his brain working at a thousand miles per hour trying to understand the sudden change of heart. When he finally realised what was happening, however, his heart shattered into a million pieces. There was a little voice in the back of his head which had been talking about the fact there might have been a reason for the drummer's unwillingness to share. 

The night before he had been very adamant on knowing, mainly because he had been a little bit hurt about having to open up about his father without getting a word out of the blonde, but now that the alcohol was out of his system he saw the flaw in his thinking. The drummer was not obligated to speak in the first place. 

Now there was a short version of his best friend, teary-eyed and submissive. It seemed so far away from the person he knew, and there appeared to be an apparent reason for that. 

"Oh no, kiddo, you told us you were starving a few seconds ago." 

He leaned forward a bit, and Roger swayed on his feet, almost like he had wanted to flinch away but stopped himself just in time, "I can't eat anything I want, my dad doesn't want me to be unhealthy." 

_Be unhealthy, _a small voice on the back of John's head repeated, and couldn't quite help but feel like that wasn't the real reason Roger refused to eat. He tried to give the little boy a small smile, "Alright, we can do healthy. In fact, Brian is a vegetarian. I don't think you can get healthier than that." 

The little boy lit up, only to frown in confusion, "Who is Brian?" 

_Who is Brian? Your older brother. The person you tell everything. Your partner in crime. Your best friend, _"The really tall and curly-haired man." 

"Oh," he kicked the floor, "Is he okay? I saw him falling." 

Something in his heart twisted, "Yeah, I think he is. But first, let's take care of you, alright?" 

He helped the small boy climb the stool and pushed over the plate of food and the cutlery. The kid lit up once again, thanking John and instantly started eating as fast as possible. He was so entranced by the food that he barely noticed John leaving and walking towards the bedroom. He knocked before entering, and then found both of his friends staring at the door in shock. 

He closed the door gently and turned towards them with wide eyes, "This _can't_ be happening." 

Freddie ran his fingers through his hair, "That's a kid out there."

"Forget that," Brian snapped, "There was a _ghost _talking to us. _Roger's ghost _was talking to us." 

"Not a ghost," John mumbled, "a warning." 

There was a long silence in which the only sound they could hear was the sound of the fork scraping against the plate. It made him quite uneasy, knowing the usually boisterous drummer was hardly making a noise. He looked around the room and saw as Brian broke out of his trance and looked at the other two, "Alright, the first thing we have to do is get him clothes." 

"What?" 

Brian turned towards Freddie, "Clothes, he can't go around dressed in a large shirt with no underwear on." 

"He is not going to last like that forever!" 

Brian turned towards Freddie, "How do we know that?" 

"Because—!" 

He couldn't find the argument, couldn't imagine why or how Roger would suddenly turn back into his 23-year-old self, which proved Brian's point. Freddie closes his eyes and lets himself slump forward into Brian's arms. The younger man instantly wrapped his arms around Freddie and nuzzled into his hair. 

"I know," he mumbles, "I know I don't want to either." 

Freddie whines something into Brian's chest, and John lets himself slump back into the door. They have barely started, and he is exhausted. He doesn't want to see how tired he will be in a few days, some weeks, or even— No, he wouldn't allow that. 

However, a small voice in the back of his head told him not to get his hopes up, he had caused this problem and didn't think he could actually solve it before Roger's birthday. 


	4. get up and die a little

Freddie heard Brian move somethings around. The roof shook as the younger man did so, making dust fall on the carpeted floor. The singer wrinkled his nose in distaste, thinking about the fact that they would probably need to vacuum the carpet after a while. He turns around when he hears John sigh and close the door, walking over to kneel beside Freddie, "He doesn't want to go out and play. Says he needs to practice his calligraphy." 

Freddie frowns, "What?" 

"I didn't even know that a five-year-old knew what calligraphy was," John ran a hand down his face, "but apparently he needs to practice so that he can go out and play." 

There is a loud thump coming from the attic, a squeal of delight, and then Brian's curly mane popped through the attic door to peer down at his friends, "Look what I found!" 

He hauled a guitar case out of the attic, and John went over to grab it. They both handled the instrument with care, not wanting to break the old thing, and then placed it on the pile of interesting things they had fished out of the room. They had been lucky enough to find several boxes of old kid's clothing; they only needed to take it out, wash it, and make sure that the clothes could fit the little boy. 

That didn't worry Freddie; the blonde was _tiny _at best. Freddie didn't know much about kids; he only knew that five-year-olds weren't supposed to be that small or that thin. What did worry him was if the clothes were going to be too big for his frail body. He turned back to the pile of clothes, taking out and separating the garments between actually wearable things, and outfits so ridiculous he wouldn't allow _anyone _to wear them. 

The pile of acceptable clothing seemed tiny in comparison to the rest, but the kids that had lived here previously seemed to be at least five or six years older than Roger was right now, which was quite disheartening. However, they had _some _clothes, which was infinitely better than what they had started with. 

He sighed as he stared at the pile, mourning the fact that there wasn't anything even remotely nice for his best friend to wear, only darb clothes with plain colours and ridiculous slogans. He fished out one shirt from the pile and held it up; it was a light blue shirt with the face of Winnie Pooh stamped in the middle. It looked small enough to fit Roger, so he sighed and threw it in a pile. He only turned to look at his friends when he heard the sounds of a guitar being tuned. 

John had his ear practically pressed to the guitar as Brian tuned the strings, trying to catch any errors. It had become a habit of them to tune their instruments together, and they seemed to be doing it even in the middle of nothing, with a poorly kept guitar. Once it was fully tuned, Brian played a small part for one of their works, the start for _She Makes Me_, and smiled widely at both of his bandmates. 

"Seems like we've got ourselves some entertainment, lads." 

Freddie rolled his eyes, "Does that mean you'll help me now? There are a lot of clothes to sort through, and someone should probably start the first load of laundry." 

Brian stared at him like he had grown a second head, "Alright, I'll get started on the washing." 

The guitarist stood up and walked towards the kitchen to look for supplies, and left John behind to deal with Freddie. The older man rubbed his neck and sighed, fully expecting John to call him out on his strange behaviour. Instead, the younger crawled closer and kneeled in front of Freddie, "Let's make Brian's life easier by separating the white load and the colour load." 

He was glad to have something to do, glad to be able to work in silence and think about the current situation, which involved a five-year-old stuffed in his room practising calligraphy, and the terrifying realisation that that same little boy was his usually rowdy and mouthy best friend. The change was jarring, and if anyone would have told him that they were the same person, Freddie would have called bullshit. 

Yes, kids were different from their adult versions, but this kid was the exact opposite of what he had expected kid Roger to be. He had expected a loud and rambunctious little runt, not an obedient soldier. But it seemed that this version of Roger was perfectly trained. He had gotten out of his own chair, left the plates on the sink after finishing breakfast, then went over to the bedroom and waited in complete silence until they came out. 

He had probably stood there for about fifteen minutes before Brian noticed him and beckoned him in. The child looked grateful for them letting him sit, and once the room was quiet, he had told them that he would like to take a bath if they would allow that. Brian and Freddie were, again, to shocked to help the poor kid, and John had had to take all the responsibility once again. 

At least they had had the decency to look for clothes inside the attic, which led to the discovery which saved them hundreds of pounds. At least they had been useful at something, Freddie reasoned, but their contribution didn't seem enough. Not only did they seem insignificant, but they weren't any closer to solving the problem to what they had been in the beginning. 

"We can't expect to solve anything in a few hours." 

He hadn't realised that he had said that out loud until John answered him, "I'm starting to realise that." 

"But?" Freddie looked up, frowning at John's questioning tone, "I sense a 'but' coming." 

"But I want him back now. I want this nightmare to end, to have him screaming my ear off about tempo, or screaming in glee when he sees an interesting spider. I don't want the kid. I want _Roger." _

John frowned, "That kid _is _Roger." 

"But he isn't," Freddie insisted, "Roger, our Roger, is a far cry away from whoever is in that room." 

"Is he?" 

"Yes, of course, he is! That boy is scared of anything, he can't move an inch out of line, he is as quiet as a mouse and obedient beyond belief. That is everything _but _our Roger." 

"Is it?" 

"Of course, John!" He squealed, "How can you not see it?" 

The younger man sighed, "How can _you _not see it? I mean if what Roger said was true this morning, then this is the way in which our wishes are going to come true. We wanted to know about his childhood, wanted to make him realise that we would always take care of him, wanted to _meet him as a child."_

"Brian didn't mean that and you know it," Freddie countered, "He didn't." 

"I know it, but the star apparently didn't." 

Brian chose that moment to walk into the room, "I have the washing machine ready to go, have you finished with sorting the clothes?" 

They both turned to look at the guitarists who looked three seconds away from breaking down. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair was a tangled mess, and his shoulders were hunched forward as if he was trying to make himself look smaller. John's heart broke as he looked at his friend, Freddie was right, Brian hadn't meant it and he was probably the biggest reason why Roger was stuffed in his room, unable to meet their eyes or eat something without his father's permission. 

"We could use another pair of hands," John offered, "Come, sit with us." 

Brian looked— well, there was no other word to describe his state but _defeated _and _guilty, _and it was then that John vowed to fix this, of not for Roger's sake, then for Brian's. 


	5. dancer

Freddie was the one who knocked on Roger's door once they were done with laundry, the boy was still hauled up in his room with no intention of going outside. However, they were well aware that he needed to change into much more comfortable clothes than just Brian's oversized pyjama top. He stepped into the room once he heard the small  _ come in  _ from inside, and found him reading a book on the bed. 

He looked so small and defenceless, and Freddie just wanted to hug him and keep him safe for the rest of his life. He hauled in the bag filled with clothes and smiled at Roger, "I brought you something better to wear than those, stud." 

The blonde propped himself on his elbows and cocked his head, "Are those new?" 

"No," Freddie said, "unfortunately not. We had to search around the house for new clothes, and thankfully there seemed to be loads of them for you. Although I don't know how many of them you will like. They are all very  _ childish."  _

Roger sat up straight and jumped off the bed once he had placed the cardboard piece he was using as a bookmark in the page where he stopped reading, "It's alright, mister. I am sure that whatever you chose for me will be just fine." 

There was something particularly excruciating about watching Roger be so damned polite to everyone, mainly because he knew that if other people were to see him, they wouldn't deem his actions weird, they would just praise him and his parents for the politeness. Had he been any other kid, Freddie himself would have praised him for his manners. But there was something so robotic about the way that Roger seemed to interact with anyone, almost as if he was expecting the world to turn on him at a second's notice. He used measured words and made sure to make everyone feel like they were in charge without a second thought. It was, quite frankly, driving Freddie Insane. 

It also made him worried. How many kids like Roger had he condemned to a childhood of abuse because of saying or doing the wrong thing?

The blonde clambered off the bed and walked over to his side, waiting for Freddie to take out the clothes they had managed to find. From star-patterned boxers, hilarious fate, to the ugly Tom Sawyer t-shirts Freddie made sure that he was always looking at Roger's face as he laid out the items of clothing, ready to throw away anything he gave the slightest indication of dislike towards. But that never happened. 

Roger's eyes seemed to be filled with genuine glee as he watched all of the items of clothing that were laid out for him, making sure to inspect each and every one of them carefully before moving on to the next. It was endearing and made Freddie's heart clench to see that wide-eyed little boy looking at everything like the old pieces of clothing were worth the world. 

Then when they reached the end of the pile, Roger looked back at Freddie, and the happiness was gone in an instant. Freddie's heart dropped, "What's wrong?" 

"I don't think I can wear these, Mister." 

Freddie frowned, "Oh, I think they will fit you, alright. Maybe some of them will be a little bit large, but I don't think that they'll look bad on you." 

"You don't understand," Roger shook his head, "You said it yourself, mister. They are for little kids." 

Damn it. Sometimes he wished he could just keep his mouth closed. He shook his head, "Nonsense. I just didn't want you to judge me in case you were one of those ridiculous kids who don't like Mickey Mouse. I mean, I  _ really _ want to be your friend, and I don't want to say something wrong." 

"Really?" his eyes were shining like two diamonds, and the smile he was wearing was the greatest gift that Freddie had ever received. 

"Yeah, really." 

Roger pursed his lips, then stood on the tips of his toes to reach Freddie's height, "And you promise you won't tell my dad? I really want to wear these clothes, but I don't think he would ever let me." 

It was then that Freddie had the most fantastic idea ever, "Let's make a deal. I promise not to tell your dad if you change into Pyjamas as soon as he comes. He doesn't have a problem about those, does he?" 

"Would you do that for me?" 

_ I would do anything for you, " _ Of course, it's no big deal. And it's not like we have other clothes to put you in." 

The difference between the Roger they had had to deal with all afternoon and the Roger in front of him was like flipping a light switch. Suddenly he was talking a mile a minute, about which clothes matched and which didn't (which made Freddie realise exactly were his fashion taste had come from) and about how cool he would look while wearing a Mickey Mouse shirt. That was the Roger that he had expected to find when he had thought about the blonde as a little boy. A lively young thing with no worries about what the rest of the world was going to say about him, or any sense of reservation. 

It brought tears to his eyes, just thinking about the change and knowing that John and Brian were missing the moment. He just hoped that the blonde would behave like this once they were out of the room. It would help heal so many of the problems that they were currently facing if he were to give Brian and John a smile.

It was after a few minutes of hard deliberation that Roger chose his clothing. He had been circling back to the Mickey Mouse shirt that Freddie had made fun of at first, and finally decided to wear it. He then started to look at the pants, all which seemed just a tad too big for Roger, and chose the sky blue ones, and then grabbed the hideous Rainbow patterned belt to top it all off. The kid seemed ecstatic about his choices in fashion, and Freddie couldn't help but feel as excited as he was. 

"Brian and John are in the living room, go and have a nice chat with them while I get this all sorted in the closet, alright?" 

Roger nodded, "Thank you again for the clothes mister." 

"You don't have to thank me; it was the least I could do." 

Roger gave him one last smile, although not as blinding, and skidded out of the bedroom. Freddie watched him go, as he walked up to John and tugged on his pant leg. It filled his heart with warmth to know that, even if it  _ had  _ felt like an eternity, Roger was finally warming up to him. 

John crouched so that he was at eye level with Roger, and gave him an encouraging smile. Brian, on the other hand, peeked out from beside the arm of the sofa and Freddie nearly laughed at the cartoon-like scene. Big hair and wide eyes staring down as John spoke to the kid. 

"I was just wondering when dinner was going to be served."

"Are you hungry?" 

Roger nodded, eyes fixed on John's long, wavy hair, "Yes, mister." 

He looked three seconds away from reaching out and pulling John down by his locks and Freddie felt like laughing at the scene. It must have looked so bizarre to him to see a man with long hair. By what the boy has told him, doubts his parents had ever let him see anything more than straight, proper, Englishmen, their stuffy wives, and their uptight children. It's a wonder that he hasn't called any of them 'lady' or something as ridiculous as that. 

"Well, I'm going to get to cook, pasta if that is okay with you," John waited for Roger to nod, and only continued when he looked rather enthusiastic about the prospect of pasta, "and you can wait with Brian while I do." 

Roger looked incredibly happy about having to spend time with Brian, and the guitarist had to do his utmost to appear as if he was too. Freddie knew better, he knew that Brian would rather swallow a whole lemon at the moment than be with Roger, but he will just have to deal with it. Freddie is too damn busy fixing up the closet, John is too busy making dinner, and he knows that Brian would rather die than make the kid believe he is a nuisance. He makes a valiant effort to put on a sweet smile, and it's only after Freddie is satisfied that he turns back to the clothes laying on the bed. 

Meanwhile, in the living room, Brian helps Roger up into the couch and then turns back towards the guitar he had been tuning. It's a slow and tedious job for someone who likes things to turn out perfect, and even worse, it sucks that he can't get the right note, only an approximation, because of how old and damaged the guitar strings seemed to be. Still, he was doing a pretty decent job, and he knows that that tuning would be enough to distract Roger, who is looking at brian like he hung the moon and stars. 

"Do you know how to play that, Mister?" 

"Brian," he corrects automatically, "You can call me Brian. And yes, I am the guitarist in a rock and roll band." 

Roger's bright blue eyes widen almost comically, "No way! Like Buddy Holly and Elvis Presley?" 

"I am not sure that Elvis played the guitar, but yes. I'm in a band. Actually, we all are, John's on bass, Freddie sings, I play the guitar, and Roger plays the drums." 

"Your drummer's name is Roger?" The blonde is talking a mile a minute, practically bouncing as he speaks and making the ratty couch shake, "Mister Brian, do I ever get to meet the drummer of your band." 

"It's not—" Brian sighs, he doesn't think that it's going to be easy to have Roger call him by his actual name rather than Mister or Sir, so he lets it slide, "Maybe. I don't quite know when he is coming back, but I'll make sure you get to meet him." 

"Cool." Roger turns so that he is facing the television rather than looking at Brian, but before he can ask if he wants to see something on TV, Roger turns back towards him and points at the guitar, "Can I hear a song?" 

He splutters for a few seconds, before regaining his composure, it's not like Roger is asking for something he can't do. Or even something he wasn't planning on doing in the first place, but just the thought of playing the guitar to this version of Roger, the one that won't be able to pick at his mistakes or join in with his singing or even some light percussion, has Brian feeling something he can't quite explain. 

He is once again reminded, be it by the large blue eyes or by the fact that the only song that he can remember the chords to is _Until You Come Back to Me_, that he is the reason that Roger is in this situation. It makes something claw up from the pit of his stomach, which makes him dizzy with guilt and sadness. Had it been any other situation, Brian would be in bed refusing to come out and let the darkness inside him consume whatever thoughts he had. But for now, he had to be strong, at least until nightfall. Once he was in bed with Freddie and John, he would let himself feel. 

He clears his throat to avoid his voice from breaking once he does speak and strums a G chord, "Sure thing. Let me just think about the song I want to play." 

He ended up doing one of their own songs.  _ She Makes Me  _ sounds hauntingly beautiful in the little living room, and while he is sure that Roger didn't want to hear such a slow and sad melody, Brian can't help but play that. He can't bring himself to think about anything else, and just hope that he can get over his melancholy shortly and guilt. But for now, he resigns himself to play She Makes Me while shooting Freddie a smile when he joins in. 

Once he looks back at Roger, he finds the kid looking up at him with admiration. It breaks his heart, and for the first time in so, so, many years, he prays. He asks for his best friend back, asks for this day to be erased from their memory, and, most importantly, for Roger to forgive him once this is all done. 

He just hopes someone out there is listening. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed that first chapter, I had a lovely time writing it and planning the plot for this small side project. 
> 
> Kuddos and Comments are highly appreciated.


End file.
